


Possibly Coffee

by yastaghr



Series: All The Hugs [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yastaghr/pseuds/yastaghr





	Possibly Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockedTrekkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockedTrekkie/gifts).



Bright sunlight beat down on scattered green tables, the few umbrellas present raised against the unusual sunny day. Red patches of leaves covered the dusty mud-brick patio. In the distance, the occasional jogger ran past, a few picnics dotted the frost-bitten lawn, and one determined border collie valiantly attempted to heard a flock of Canada geese. Quite a nice day for ten thirty on a Wednesday in November.

 

Steve Rogers stared absently into the distance, a half-finished crossword abandoned beside him. He took a sip from the white paper cup at his elbow, then scowled.

 

“That is not coffee.”

 

Another cup, complete with an illegible scrawl across the side, slide across the table towards him. A horrible screech tearing through the quiet morning. For a moment, snowflakes danced over an open gorge, smoke rising up to meet whirring blades inches over his head, muscles strained...he breathed, slow and deep. One… two… three… OUT… two… three… In. Reality came rushing back with the new air.

 

A kid in faded jeans and an over-large t-shirt was dragging one of the scuffed metal chairs across the patio. The chair was almost as big as they were, and the repeated shrieks of the metal frame were making him tense. He stood up, a splash of liquid from the cup scalding his hand. He barely noticed.

 

“Hey kid, need a hand?”

 

The small figure looked up. A pair of battered sunglasses perched over a huge, wrinkled grin, the entire picture topped off with a scruff of dark, dusty hair.

 

“Sure thing!”

 

He stepped out from behind the table, new sneakers squeaking in protest at the sudden movement. He lifted the chair easily… the thing couldn’t weigh more than fifteen pounds. He looked around for whoever must be watching the kid…

 

His pupils dilated, his body turning this way and that. Was he stuck in another flashback? 

 

“Figured you wouldn’t want anyone noticing this little chat, so… I guess you could say I paused them? Something like that. Just want to talk.”

 

Rogers whipped round, shoulders tensed. The kid had plopped down in his chair, removed the lid of his coffee cup, and was inspecting the contents with interest. 

 

“You’re right - this certainly isn’t coffee. I think it’s some kind of tea,” The kid took a cautious sip. Rogers stared, arms crossed, while they swilled the tea around in their mouth. They looked thoughtful, then swallowed, turning the cup so they could read the order on the side, “Yes, I am almost positively certain that this is tea. Possibly chamomile, but considering how-”

 

He banged his fist on the table, “Look here, kid, I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but those people don’t deserve-”

 

The kid held up a finger, “The only one’s being affected by this little moment are you and I… and that duck over there, not sure why he got pulled in... Paused… may have been the wrong word. It would be more accurate, though still wrong, to say I added a few extra minutes to your life just for this little chat. The universe doesn’t really have enough room for them to exist, so we’re just… here.”

 

He looked around, wincing at the suspended figure of the collie in mid-leap. This was… more than a little beyond him. He tried to clarify things a little, “... and the duck?”

 

The kid shrugged, taking a sip from the possibly-tea, “I’m not perfect,” they slid the untouched white cup across the table towards him, “Neither is anyone. Neither are you. For instance, you grabbed my cup of tea instead of your own cup of,” here they paused, lifting their head to look at the scrawled label, “What does that even say, anyway?”

 

Rogers shrugged. In the long list of impossible things he had experienced in his life, this conversation didn’t even come close to the top, “I think they were going for my name.”

 

The kid nudged their sunglasses further up their nose, snorting, “Pretty sure there’s a ‘w’ in there. And a ‘c’.”

 

He shrugged, “Like you said, nobody’s perfect.”

 

...

 

Silence. The kid stared at him. He shifted on his feet, unnerved. 

 

…

 

“You said you wanted to talk?”

 

A grin spread across the kid’s face, “Yeah. Just… deciding where this needed to go,” He tried not to let his confusion show, “Nevermind. You… hmn. Steve Rogers, a man out of his time who has managed to carve his own niche in a world that doesn’t need him… well, that’s what people say. You ever think about what they mean?”

 

He tilted his head, wondering how the kid knew his name, then shrugging it aside. Whatever this kid was, whatever they were doing, his normal logic didn’t seem to apply, “Sure. People don’t always like things that are different from them.”

 

The kid let out a bark of laughter, “Ha! Yeah, guess there’s that, too. Nah, I was talking about the ‘man out of his time’ bit. You know that’s a compliment now? ‘A man ahead of his own time’, ‘old-fashioned morals’... people rarely compliment someone for existing precisely in this second, this hour, this day. They only notice a thing when it doesn’t fit, not it does.”

 

“So?” Rogers swung the chair the kid had been dragging around in front of him, resting his head on the metal back.

 

“So, think about what that means to you. Everything around you changes in an instant… is it you that doesn’t fit, or is it everything else? Can you really just pretend everything that happened before that moment remains in the past? You are here… and those moments are a part of you. The fist-fights, the gunshots, the rescue, the freight-car, the ice… all those moments aren’t just going to go away.” 

 

Rogers froze. The kid eyed him, their head tilting to the side, as if encountering something they weren’t quite sure how to react to. They took a sip of tea, and sighed.

 

“The brain isn’t an archive, with locked sections completely isolated from all the rest… it’s more like an attic. Everything jumbled together, important things up front, broken chairs tossed to the back. Some stuff gets buried deep, piles and piles of new memories, new experiences, new emotions heaped on top… but it leaves its mark. Scratches, dents… sometimes you’ll go rummaging around for some old photograph and end up staring straight into the eye’s of the beast.”

 

He shook himself, “I get it. I know. I go to meetings about this kind of… well,  _ went _ to meetings.”

 

The kid nodded, “Yeah… has Bucky?” 

 

…

 

Silence.

 

“And what about Wanda? Tony definitely hasn’t, although Bright Stars Above does he need to.”

 

…

 

More silence.

 

The kid nodded solemnly. “You’re as much of an expert at this kind of thing as their going to get. The least you could do is point them in the right direction… or, y’know-” The kid’s arm flung out in a sweeping gesture. At the end of it, everything… stuttered.

 

Rogers felt small hands reaching most of the way around his waist in a comforting hug, “- at the very least you could give them a hug.”

 

Seconds passed. The duck let out a quack, and the kid let him go.

 

“Everybody needs a hug, now and again… actually, the more hugs, the better.”

 

He turned. The kid scratched the brick with a bare toe. Then they turned their face up to him, a brilliant smile beaming across their face.

 

“Well, guess I’d better go, dude.”

 

The world stuttered again. He sat completely still, senses stretching to their limits. In the distance, one of the geese honked loudly at the border collie that had landed beside it. He breathed out.

 

“Oh, almost forgot this!” His head snapped up. The kid waggled the cup of probably-tea, then dug in their pocket. They pulled out a shiny gold coin, laying it on the table.

 

“I’ll pick this up next time, shall I? Try not to lose it.”

 

…

  
He stared at the duck. The duck stared back. He shrugged. He picked up the coin, turning it over and over in his hand. It was so worn he couldn’t even tell that scratch was an accident or what remained of an engraving. He slipped the thing in his pocket and pulled out a pen, reaching across the table to snag the paper. After a moment’s hesitation, he began to write.


End file.
